A Classical Christmas
by Totally-Out-Of-It
Summary: It's Christmas time and Bond is not in the holiday spirit, as usual. Being unable to sleep doesn't make things any better. Luckily, his quartermaster helps him with his sleeping problem, and might change his opinion on the Christmas season too. 00Q QBond


AN: I usually make unknown character ages match their actors, but for this fic I made Q younger than Ben, to increase the age difference and stay closer to the comments about how young Q is meant to be.

There are three songs in this fic. I'll note when each one should be clicked on within the fic. Just go to youtube and put in each bit after the main url.

(1) watch?v=06rz0Bpr-wg

(2) watch?v=MhtOfacHP8M

(3) watch?v=CvFH_6DNRCY

* * *

Christmas. James was not a fan of the holiday – mostly due to his lack of friends and family to share it with. The lights weren't bad. And the sudden burst of charity people were overcome with was… nice, he supposed. It all felt a little fake, a little forced, but he wasn't going to shame normal civilians for how they found their happiness in life.

Another reason James didn't think much of Christmas was because he was usually out on mission during the season, so really it never came up. Or, it never used to come up. Not until he got a new quartermaster.

"So where do they have you stationed this time?" Q asked during his first Christmas at the head of the department.

He was fixing a loose screw on James' watch, of all things. Not for a job or anything – they'd already gone through all the gadgets James would have for his mission. James just happened to mention the watch seemed off, and Q's eyes had spotted the issue instantly. And then he started in on fixing it.

"Mozambique," James replied dryly. "If everything comes back full of sand, you won't be able to hold it against me."

"Sounds like a very green Christmas for you this year," Q noted off-hand, holding the watch up to the light and looking closely at it. "Suppose you'll at least have the rain to remind you of home, though."

"I've never been a huge fan of rain," James admitted with a sour smirk. "Dreary stuff. All a bit wet, you see."

Q's bespectacled stare looked over at him quizzically for a moment, but then he smiled, a tease hiding in the corner. "Ah. I see your point. I have been thinking of rain all wrong. Wet. I'll endeavor to remember your wisdom in the future."

"Do," James agreed, his smirk losing all its bitter notes. "You could still learn a thing or two from an old man like me."

With an amused snort, Q handed back the watch and examined the fit as James replaced it on his own wrist. Once he was certain his work was flawless, Q's eyes looked up into James' and James was curious to find a certain mirth in them.

"It is a bit early for you to be making old man jokes, 007. You're only forty-nine. Hardly old." He crossed his arms momentarily before moving to put his hands on his hips instead. Fidgety, as usual.

Shrugging, James allowed the correction. "And you're barely thirty," he said a moment later. "Nineteen years between us – I'd have expected you to think someone like me to be ancient."

Almost overtop of James' last words, Q said, "Nineteen years is not so large a difference... in the long run."

He held James' gaze resolutely as he said it, and stayed firm in his stare in the serious silence that followed them. James knew he'd heard correctly, but it was the connotation he was working out. What exactly was the long run? Time itself? Or was the quartermaster, still standing close after delivering the watch, suggesting something more tangible, more visceral?

With a heavy swallow that made his throat bob noticeably, drawing James' attention there, Q took a step back and moved a short distance away to his computer. "A lot happens in nineteen years," he allowed with a half shrug. "I can see how we might disagree on the topic."

Brow knit, Bond let out a smooth, "I'll have to think on it and get back to you."

Q glanced up momentarily, but then his eyes were back on his computer. "I'll contact you out in the field, then, 007," he said, not raising his gaze up even a fraction for a second look.

"I look forward to it," James said and took several steps away, his footsteps hollow in the cavernous space that was the new Q Branch. Then he paused and turned back. "One more thing. Don't say it's Christmas if I call you on the comms. White or Green, it doesn't change the mission."

That brought Q's head up, and really James shouldn't feel so proud of the achievement. "Understood," Q said shortly, but James could tell he was confused. "Have a safe journey."

Then James was on a plane, flying just over ten hours to meet his contact in Johannesburg, who would then take him into Mozambique. But ten hours was a long flight, and usually he would sleep, but as he got older, James found sleep was harder and harder to come by, and Good Sleep was almost non-existent.

Slipping his comm into his ear as discreetly as possible, passing it off as a drowsy head roll and then resting his head in his hand, he sighed out, "Long flights are so dull."

The seventy-year-old woman beside him smiled. "You should try to sleep, Dear. It's what I always do. Planes are so soothing." And she was already under her blanket and prepping to nod off.

"Yes. Very," James agreed with a polite smile, thinking of how his quartermaster was afraid of flying and would find the ride to be quite the opposite of 'soothing'. "Maybe I'll give that a try."

Then James' phone made a jingle sound and he pulled it out while the old women settled in to sleep. On his screen was a game he knew he hadn't downloaded, but there it was. It was some sort of chess game. And the pop-up over it stated that another player wished to start a match with him. Curious, James hit accept and the board was laid. In the top corner, his opponent's name was 'QMasterG' and he smiled.

Q made the first move and James brought up the chat.

'G?' he asked.

'Stands for Geoffrey,' Q answered. 'My predecessor.'

'And the chess?'

'You claimed to be bored.'

True, James thought, and he did enjoy a good game of chess.

They spent two hours on chess and then Q remotely downloaded a new game onto James' mobile and they were playing scrabble. It was fun, if James were being honest, but he'd never admit it out loud. Q was an excellent opponent at both strategy and vocabulary. In fact he was quite a bit better at vocabulary, but James held his own by catching triple word scores and the like.

Somewhere into hour six of the flight, James nodded off. When he woke up on touchdown in Johannesburg, there was no message from Q asking why he'd stopped playing. Part of James was surprised. Most of him wasn't. His Quartermaster was smart enough to realize the truth without support.

Really the worst part was that James lost the final match due to inactivity.

The flight to Beira was almost too short to get comfortable, and then his contact with MI6 was minimal. He worked his contact, who was almost too agreeable, and had more than enough intel to work with by the end of his first day.

His target, a man named Leon, would be at a gala event the following night. That was where Bond would strike. His contact was Rufino, Leon's butler, would provide the opportunity. James had a back-up plan of course. Never trust a contact to the final details. Loyalty could be won… in both directions.

Rufino told him to get a good night's rest and wear a nice suit to the party, which James assured him wouldn't be a problem. Well, at least the suit bit.

Lying on his hotel bed, James stared at the roof and knew he wouldn't sleep much, and not well. He'd seen too much, was too on edge. Constant vigilance was a side effect of the job, and he couldn't turn it off. Even alcohol only tuned it out so much.

Closing his eyes, he wondered if Q Branch could engineer a better sleeping pill – something non-habit forming but very effective. Was such a pill even possible? Would he really want it if it was? Knowing himself as well as he did, James knew he'd turn down the option. Alcohol was about the only drug he willingly ingested. And the occasional painkiller.

Almost subconsciously, he reached over to his side table and retrieved his earpiece. When he had it in place, he sighed and felt silly. People were used to James going dark on missions. Why should he even bother trying to make midnight conversation?

"Anyone awake up there?" he droned lazily, feeling stupid.

There was a moment of silence, not even static, and then a voice came in after only a hint of static.

"How can we be of assistance?" Q asked, alert and ready. "Has the timeline moved up?"

"No." The embarrassment was creeping through his chest.

Confused, Q changed his line of questioning. "Have you been found out?"

"Not at all." And now it was moving up his neck to his face.

"You have some sort of injury." And now Q wasn't even asking, really. He was stating, trying to solidify facts with words.

"I'm in perfect health." And down into his stomach. His voice was smooth and unperturbed, but he was beginning to wish he hadn't called. He'd never called before. Lonely and tired were not excuses for ruining his reputation or work relationships. Who knew how many were listening in on his pathetic words?

Silence returned for a moment and then Q, very quietly and suspiciously, asked, "Then why are you calling?"

"That may depend on who's listening in," James admitted coolly, and only afterwards recognized how inappropriate the comment may sound to others.

An audible setting down of Q's stupid mug. "W-Well now I don't know if it's entirely bright of me to admit I'm actually alone in my office. Everyone else still in the department at this hour is helping other agents."

"You have an office?" James asked, focusing on things that really mattered, as usual.

A sigh so characteristic of Q that James could actually see the eye roll came over the line. "Yes," Q said, sounding harried. "I do, actually, have an office."

"How very grown-up of you," James teased and could imagine the annoyed look Q would send him if they were speaking in person.

And yet the Quartermaster's next words were not tired or disappointed, as James expected. They were almost… upset?

"Why did you call, 007?" he asked.

"Honestly?" James asked.

"Of course honestly. I'm at work. You're at work, technically. We're working. You don't just call to blather on. I-"

"I couldn't sleep," James admitted, and absorbed all of the shameful silence that followed his admission. At worst, Q would think he was starting to crack and dismiss him to return to staring blindly at the ceiling. At best, he would try to change the subject and pretend the conversation didn't happen after he cut the call short.

Q cleared his throat and James prepared himself for the soft rejection. But at least Q wouldn't spread rumors, as some other Q branch operative might.

"I suppose you've tried the bullocks counting sheep bit, then?" Q said more than asked.

"Blasted things wouldn't jump," James replied and slipped his hands behind his head. The ceiling was peeling. Someone should tell the management. They should also be informed that wallpaper didn't belong on the ceiling.

"Well, if you're calling for advice, you could attempt what I do," Q offered, and his genuinely helpful tone relaxed some of the tension that had crawled in with the embarrassment.

"And what does my brilliant quartermaster do when he can't fall asleep at night?" James asked. He didn't mean it as a tease, but he recognized that it could be taken that way. Before he could speak up to clarify his honest curiosity, Q blew right over any insult James' words may have caused.

"I play," he said.

Before James could ask for clarification – play what exactly? – a sound started over the comm. (1) It was soft at first, but he recognized it immediately as a piano. A few notes here and there. A chord. There was a tender piano melody coming from Q's small office in London all the way to James' lackluster, humid hotel room in Mozambique.

Something most people suspected, but never verified, about James Bond was that he didn't care for music. It was an ambiance thing, not a preference of his – like someone who disliked alcohol but didn't mind being around people who drank. The lackies at MI6 were certain that for James music, like many other aspects of his life, had become a blurred background – a mix of grays, not colors.

Most people would be wrong.

"It's beautiful," James murmured, and he noticed his eyes had shut as the music had moved through him. "What is it?"

Softly, so as not to disturb the piece, Q's voice answered, "A piece composed by Robert Schumann. The title is 'Dreaming'."

A smile lifted James' lips. "Fitting."

"If you tease me, I'll turn it off," Q warned, voice still soft.

James didn't say anything, not trusting himself to speak without sass. It came so easy when speaking with Q, and he didn't want their usual banter to end the music. So he let the music play and imagined Q in his office, typing away on his keyboard, all alone like James. Listening to the song with him.

The song was short, but it played at least three times through. Perhaps it played more, but just after the third seamless transition into itself, sleep finally took over and James couldn't keep count. And really, it must have played more, because James slept peacefully for several hours – something he wasn't used to.

In the morning, he woke groggy. It was a symptom of sleeping deeply, and he went for an early run to clear his head. But as unpleasant as being groggy was, James was more focused on the cause of his ability to sleep. Maybe he would invest in classical CDs for when he was home in London.

Probably not.

The Christmas Gala was a power show by Leon, and James did his best to blend in. He found his way to the bar and a beautiful woman who sat all alone. They engaged in small talk of no consequence, James' eye on Leon across the room almost as often as on the woman in front of him.

A piano played music from the back corner, and James tried not to focus on it. When he couldn't help it, he noticed the echo of the room changing the sound to make it fuller, more robust, and that taught him something about the tune Q had played for him the night before.

It wasn't from a concert. It wasn't touched up at all. Wherever Q had pulled his sound file from, it was a rough-draft recording version. Live from the studio. If Bond ever did get a CD to sleep to, he'd need something like that.

Around midnight, Leon excused himself into a side room with one of his business partners. Rufino stood guard outside the door. Butler, indeed, James thought. Excusing himself from his lovely conversation partner, James made his way around the main room and over to Rufino.

"Feliz Natal, amigo," he greeted.

"Foda-se," Rufino grunted in response.

The man's change of heart was expected and a disappointment, but his faith could be won back. All it took was bending his hand back discreetly and whispering a tiny threat in his ear. Once in the room, James slipped a small face mask from his pocket and over his nose and mouth. Leon had enough time to start shouting angrily in Portuguese before James tossed out his newest toy from Q Branch. Aerosol Phoratoxin – heavily concentrated dosage.

The initial expulsion of gas caught his targets off-guard, but their gasps of shock only increased the infection rate. It was a matter of five seconds before they were both on the ground, wheezing pitifully and trying to find the door. The gas finished releasing, but by then James had reentered the party, his mask safely back in his pocket.

He returned to the woman at the bar, none but Rufino with any idea what he'd done. And by the time the lifeless bodies were discovered, James wasn't even at the party. He was back in his room, his beautiful new friend by his side.

The sad part was that, as he kissed his way down the woman's chest, his mind was playing the piano piece from the night before. And as he lay awake that night, or really it was morning, his newest lover tucked up under his arm, he ached to call again and see about a repeat. But he couldn't sleep that night. He had to be awake in case Rufino told someone. He had to be on a plane by seven.

Feliz Natal, he thought sourly. He hated the holidays.

On the ten hour flight home, James played games with Q again. He kept his ear piece in as he did so, and he knew Q was listening to it because he heard the other curse softly after James made a particularly good move.

As before, the games lulled James into relaxation, but this time he did not sleep. He had over half the flight left when he grew tired of playing games. Shutting his phone's screen off, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Play something nice for me?" he asked out loud, but there was no one in the seat beside him to comment this time.

Not that it mattered. There was less than a minute of silence following his request before a new tune entered his ears. (2) It was all piano, just like last time, and had the same live studio session quality. A smirk curled onto James' lips when he recognized the tune. It was 'I'll Be Home For Christmas.'

Turning on his phone, he sent, 'I thought I told you not to bring up Christmas.'

'I'm sure I don't know to what you are referring,' Q sent back. 'I have said nothing about it.'

Smiling now, James settled back to enjoy the music. True to his sneaky, snarky nature, Q had circumvented James' request. He remembered his own words. He'd said not to "say" anything about Christmas. But Q wasn't saying a thing. He was playing an instrumental song. No words involved.

Technically, Q was breaking a promise, but not enough to merit backlash. And technically, James deserved it. In his history of working with MI6, he had broken more promises than he could count, and it was no different with this new Q. He imagined the disappointed look on Q's face every time James did something he said he wouldn't, every time he brought back his equipment broken when he promised to bring them back intact, and he frowned.

Maybe it was time he started keeping promises to Q. After all, did he want Q to associate James with unreliability and broken promises? Not really. Maybe the best Christmas gift he could give Q would be to keep his promises in the new year.

Under the spell of several Christmas piano scores, James Bond drifted to sleep for five blissful hours. He woke up thinking of how true the first song had been. Despite their discussion before his departure, James had made it home on Christmas Eve, a full two days ahead of schedule.

He would, indeed, be home for Christmas.

After stopping in to make his report, James headed down to Q branch to return his tech. Surprisingly, he was able to return most of it in spectacular condition.

"It's a bloody holiday miracle," Q remarked after checking the last item. "You managed to bring back over eighty percent of it in perfect condition. In fact, the only thing you seem to have used was the gas bomb. Surprisingly efficient, 007. You usually go out with more of a … well, a bang."

"No gun fights this time. Senhor Leon was unfortunately not a quick draw," James answered with a hint of disappointment in his voice intended to tease Q. It worked. Just like he knew it would.

"I'd send the man a thank you card if he wasn't dead," Q said and passed the weapons off to one of his assistants.

Without being prompted to, James followed Q across the open room toward a small corner office and, wow, Q really did have an office. Q opened the door and stood back, holding it for the agent and looking only mildly concerned that he'd been followed without asking for it.

"What exactly was in the gas?" James asked as he strode into the room. "What is Phoratoxin?"

The walls were surprisingly bare, but there were two degrees in frames and a photo of an old house in the country. James had not pegged Q for the 'random scenery' type, but he realized he knew very little about the man outside of work. On his desk was the only holiday item in a hundred feet. It was a pocket sized Christmas tree with a button at the base to light it up. Currently it was dark.

"Mistletoe," Q said, and James heard the smirk before he turned and saw it. Q sat down at his desk looking quite pleased with himself. "Congratulations. You just killed two targets with mistletoe poisoning."

"You're joking," James drawled.

"Not in the slightest." The younger man set his hands on the desk and looked expectantly up at James, as if waiting for him to admit Q was clever.

It was more than a little endearing, to be honest.

"You're going to find any way possible around my Christmas gag, aren't you?" James asked, but he was smiling too. Q's only response was an innocent shrug. "Well enjoy it while you can. The blasted holiday will be over tomorrow."

"Just what exactly do you dislike about Christmas, Bond?" Q asked, eyebrows rising curiously. "The lights? The sounds? The snow? The blatant commercialism and pressure to donate to a cause you'd otherwise never think of?"

"If I told you, you'd send me to medical for a psych eval," James replied honestly and pointed at Q's laptop. "This where you keep the piano files?"

"Yes. Well no. I store them on my home computer, but I have access to that network from here." Q tapped the mouse pad to wake his computer up. James couldn't see the screen, but he could see Q's fingers deftly sliding across the keyboard. "I take it that you enjoyed the music?"

James tried to shrug noncommittally, but his voice betrayed the blasé effect. "It may have helped me sleep better than I have in months." He was always more honest around Q than he strictly meant to be. The younger man had that sort of gravity. "I debated on the drive over here if I should ask for a copy of the disc."

"That would be impossible since there is no disc," Q answered and pulled a thumb drive from his desk drawer. He plugged it in and waited only a half second for the computer to recognize the device before he could start working with it. "But it is a season of capitalistic giving. So maybe I could give you some anyway."

"Very magnanimous," James said and sat on the corner of the desk to watch Q work.

Christmas. Q kept avoiding the exact wording, honoring James' request, but he still obviously cared about the holiday. Not obsessively. But he cared. In his hard chest, James felt a stirring that begged the question of whether he should get Q a real present. Christmas was the next day. Most of the shops would have closed, but even something small and stupid would be better than nothing, right?

One reason why he hated Christmas – the feeling that if you got someone nothing, you were at fault. But when Q glanced up from loading the files onto the thumb drive and smiled at James like an old friend, that reason seemed less important. Q wouldn't hold it against James for not getting a gift. He wasn't that attached to the holiday… or to James. And maybe that feeling was a little bit worse.

"There you are," Q said, ejecting the thumb drive and holding it out to James. He stood as he said, "Merry Christmas, Bond."

James closed his hand around the drive and Q's fingers and held firm as he stared straight into Q's eyes and leaned too close. Q's pupils grew in shock, his breathing became shallow and soft, and his whole body radiated curiosity and anxiety simultaneously. When he was close enough to breathe and have it reach Q's face, James stopped.

"You said the word," he said with a small grin. Q's brow knit together in confusion and he looked more annoyed at himself than at James. The agent gently pulled his hand back from Q's, tugging the thumb drive free and into his own grip. Q let it go without a fight. "Merry Christmas, Q." And only then did James pull back from the other's personal space.

Blinking several times and clearing his throat, Q pulled down on his jacket to right himself. "Right. Well. I'm off tomorrow. So if they send you on anymore missions between now and the new year, you'll be dealing with Randal. Just a warning – he's rubbish at chess, and he's more likely to send you country music than piano."

His small smile still on his lips, James shook his head and backed up to the door. "I wouldn't even dream of asking him," he said. "I wouldn't trust another soul down here with the knowledge of my sleep habits. Let one person know and the whole building would have the gossip by week's end."

"But you trusted me?" Q asked, sliding his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. He looked smaller when he did that, but more professional. James really wanted to tell him to stuff professionalism.

"Only you," James admitted, within arm's reach of the door. The knowledge brought a certain excitement to Q's face, and James' smile got a little bigger. "Don't let it go to your head," he said. "Or do."

He opened the door and the noise of Q Branch flooded the room, invading their tiny interlude. Time moved ever onward. Life did not stop. Not even for ridiculous holidays.

"Merry Christmas, Q," he said again and ingrained the image of the younger man, still excited from gaining a 00's trust, into his mind forever.

He had already stepped out of the office and into the din of noise when he heard Q respond to his parting words. He was a little hard to hear, but it sounded a lot like, "Merry Christmas, James."

On his way home, James heard the final words multiple times in his head. He looked at the frozen, snowy London landscape and thought about the way Q's body had hummed with energy when James got close. It had been a lot warmer in that office than it was outside.

In his flat, James plugged the drive into his computer and hit play on the dozen or so songs Q had given him. The first one was "I'll Be Home For Christmas", and he let it play through, his mind on the tiny Christmas tree on the desk and Q's wide pupils.

He ate dinner – just a frozen thing from his freezer since he hadn't been home to buy anything good. Eve would undoubtedly scold him for it if she knew, but at least he was eating. But Eve did not occupy his thoughts for long. Soon he was back to Q and the tiny Christmas tree and the mistletoe poisoning.

He listened to the sound of Q's music and stared out his window at the white and gray city. His body tingled as he stood close enough to the window to feel the chill but far enough back to be in the heat of his flat. Was Q warm tonight, he wondered. Was he wearing the oversized coat from when they first met? Was he wearing the slim sweater from Austria?

A glass of whiskey later and James was wondering how Q celebrated Christmas and if maybe he should try liking the holiday again. Maybe Q could give him some pointers. Maybe he could ask Q for the gift he really wanted… but would Q even believe that the only thing James really wanted was to be with him? He couldn't exactly bring in some cheesy line about 'All I want for Christmas is you' when he was the least Christmas-y person Q knew.

Anyway, Q's holiday would last the entire following week, so James would need to wait until next year to give a go at the whole 'Christmas Spirit' thing and use that kind of line.

Or did he?

Downing his second glass in a rush, James pulled on his coat and left the flat. Most MI6 workers didn't live far from work, and Q was no different. A short three blocks was all it took for James to find the right complex.

(3) When he stopped outside Q's door, he heard the same thing he'd left at home. A piano. But it was louder than his computer, clearer. It was a tender, sad melody. At his knock, the music abruptly stopped, paused in the middle of a note, and a minute later the door open to reveal Q in very comfortable looking pajamas.

"Should I pretend to be surprised you know where I live? Or shall I just express my honest concerns for your mental state?" he asked, not even bothering to greet James.

"May I come in?" James asked.

Q let out a huff of a sigh but stepped aside to let the agent pass the threshold. The inside was about as festive as Q's office. He had two more tiny trees on his counter and a banner that claimed the season, but otherwise his flat was average. He had a bookcase in one corner, a nice leather Chesterfield sofa, and a well stocked kitchen in view. But the majority of the living area was taken up by a black baby grand piano.

"I have to be up in the morning, so you can't stay long," Q said. "I have to catch a bus."

"The piano files." James touched the piano carefully. "You recorded them."

Biting his cheek, Q didn't immediately answer. But really there was no sense denying what was obvious. Q played the piano. James should have guessed as much. The younger man's hands were so adept at flying across a computer keyboard. Why not a piano?

"Yes," Q finally admitted. "I told you so the first night. When I can't sleep, I play."

"Who else knows you play?" James asked, crossing the room to stand in Q's personal space. The other didn't back down, but he didn't answer either. The only reaction James saw was the bob of his Adam's apple. "Just me, then."

"Only you," Q affirmed. "M knew. Before she… Well she knew."

Before he could lose his nerve, James moved closer and brushed his fingers over Q's cheek. "Then I should thank you personally," he said.

"For what?" Q asked, and James did not miss the way his eyes flickered down to James' lips.

"For letting me borrow your talent to help me sleep." He'd come to try his luck at wooing Q officially, and now he only felt the urge to do so even more. The beautiful music that had pushed away the tension and lulled him into dreamless slumbers… it was all Q.

James' fingers had trailed down to Q's jaw and then to his neck before the quartermaster found his voice again. And when he spoke it wasn't as strong as the other tended to be. "Why are you here, Bond?"

"I wanted to see you before you left," James said. Then the honesty that always kicked up around Q took over and he added, "I wanted to see what you were wearing, and if you'd give me a Christmas kiss."

Q's hand came up and stopped the descent of James' fingers to his collarbone. "You don't even like Christmas," he reminded. "Why would I do such a thing?"

"Just a kiss then," James amended.

"But why?" Q asked again. James could be mistaken, but he thought he could feel a tremor in Q's hand where it gripped his wrist. "I'm not a mission. And you said it yourself - I'm barely thirty."

"A lot happens in nineteen years," James agreed. "But I think one of the most impressive things to happen in my first nineteen years was a birth … of someone I didn't even know about until I was nearly fifty."

That earned a snort of amusement. "Come now, James. Did you really think something so corny was going to win me over?"

"Sometimes I find the truth can be a powerful aphrodisiac," James replied, lowering his voice sensually. He moved his head over to press a kiss just below Q's left ear and heard the tiniest of gasps in return. "After all… you just called me James."

"Bloody hell," Q cursed softly. He released James' hand and instead put both hands on James' chest. "What am I doing? You're a disaster wrapped up in a fine suit. I know. I ordered the suit and it usually comes back in shambles."

"Occupational hazards," James replied with a smile. "A kiss, Q. It's not so bad. And then I'll leave you to your baby grand."

"Just a kiss," Q said, not sounding convinced. But then he looked over James' face and a different, darker look crossed his face. He took a slow, deep breath. "Just a kiss."

Slowly, James brought their lips together, and even though it had been his idea, had been in his mind since before his first glass of whiskey, the fulfillment of the desire sent a shock through his soul. He'd come here, out of the blue, to finally woo his quartermaster… and Q had let him. It was both relaxing and erotic in the same instant.

Q's hands turned to fists in his shirt as the kiss ended, and James did his best not to smile about it. "Just a kiss?" Q asked, their mouths barely a breath apart.

"I was under the impression you thought this was a terrible idea," James pointed out, his hand still on Q's neck. He tested dipping them lower again, skimming under the collar of Q's pajama top, and this time Q responded by parting his lips and pressing them to James' in a second, open mouthed kiss.

This kiss was more heated, with Q pressing back against James' mouth, and Q's right hand coming up to run into the agent's hair. James groaned into the assault and slid his hands around to Q's back and down to hold his ass, pulling their bodies closer. With a gasp, Q turned his face away from the kisses, and James' mouth found new purchase on his exposed neck.

"James," Q panted, and the sound went straight to James' groin. "I can't. I have to- I need to go to bed."

"Is that what concerns you right now?" James asked, bringing his head up to look into the blown pupils of his quartermaster. "Or is your worry that I won't be here when you wake?"

His response was a heavy swallow and a following slow exhale. Q's left hand was still on his chest, his right still up on James' head, and he looked like he was trying to logic his way out of being aroused. No doubt he was thinking of all the reasons he shouldn't let James Bond into his bed, of all the consequences and ripple effects it would undoubtedly have.

"Only you," James murmured and brought his hands away from Q's backside. One rested on his hip, the other returned to brush his cheek again. "If I were to spend Christmas with anyone… it would be you. And I'll be here in the morning. I promise."

"A 00 making promises," Q teased without heat. "I do believe it would be the first one you've ever kept to me."

"I had a beautiful thought on the flight home," James said. "Of making it a habit to keep promises to you."

"James Bond, telling the truth," Q murmured, as though considering the possibility. His hand was caressing the base of James' hair while he thought. "I honestly think believing you could spell the end of my career."

"Q," James began, torn between the sadness of rejection and a righteous indignation.

But before he could continue, Q spoke again. "Daniel," he said, then amended, "Danny."

"Danny?" James asked, trying out the name. Q's real name? Such a sign of trust in the midst of explaining why they shouldn't continue?

For a moment, Q shut his eyes and lowered his head, and James thought maybe it was a reaction to hearing his real name aloud, but it was a sad movement. The younger man's fingers still on his neck and curled into a loose fist.

"It's just… trust in our field is hard to earn. And the bureaucracy of becoming intimate with an active field agent. You won't believe the paperwork. And you're reputation-." Q cut himself off, shaking his head. "Never mind the reputation. But you don't even like Christmas. I don't know anything you do actually like – outside of blowing up my equipment and having people think you're some sort of miniature god."

"Piano music," James cut in with. "I am a great fan of classical music. I'm a known alcoholic, but I never let it interfere with important things. I can't sleep on my right side because it aggravates an old injury. I don't like Christmas because my childhood was rough, to say the least, and it was never very important. I'm allergic to blueberries-"

Q pulled back with a start. "Blueberries?" he asked incredulously. "You're joking."

With a snarky grin, James shook his head. "I'm not. Would you like to know more? Or would you prefer to go to bed?"

"That depends. Will you be joining me? Or must I play more of Debussy's 'Claire de Lune' to lure you in?" Q asked and took two steps backward toward his room.

Obviously, James stepped to match him. "What about your promising career in espionage? Workplace professionalism? All the paperwork?"

"Shut up, James. It's Christmas and I'm on vacation. I'll deal with the paperwork next year," Q answered and pulled James close enough to kiss again, but he didn't follow through. His voice dropped and was equal parts threatening and sexy. "And if you let this come back to bite me, 007, I assure you that it will be you that regrets it. Not me."

"You're rather sexy when you threaten me," James murmured and captured Q's lips again, getting his hands all over Q once more.

"Let's not make it a habit I have to enforce," Q said, voice wavering when James went back to kissing down his jaw and neck. "I'd much rather- rather-" He moaned this time when James' hand slid down over his ass.

A pleased sound, deep and loud, escaped James and he grinned as he backed Q up toward the bedroom. He slid his hands up Q's pajama shirt until he had lifted the article of clothing off his quartermaster's lithe body, and then he lifted Q up into his arms and walked him to the bed.

"James, honestly," Q argued, but he made no effort to get down. In fact, he wrapped his legs around James.

Stopping by the bed, but not releasing his new captive, James found himself smiling warmly up at his lover. Boyfriend? Partner? "You're gorgeous, Danny," he said.

"Shut up." Even in the dark, James could tell the other was blushing.

"No, honestly," he insisted and lowered Q enough to kiss him again. "I think if I had someone like you by my side every year, I could get used to Christmas."

With a snort, Q shook his head, but he was smiling too, so it was still a win for James. The younger man sighed contentedly and stroked a hand through James' hair.

"Your clichés are going to ruin a perfectly good evening of sex, James. Now let's get to it. It's almost midnight and we do have to get up in the morning," he said.

"We?" James asked.

"You think I'm going to let you shag me and not drag you to the chaos of my family Christmas afterward?" Q smirked. "You clearly don't know the kind of relationship you've set yourself up for."

End


End file.
